


Bottled Memories

by TrenchcoatsandMisery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Adult Stiles Stilinski, Alcoholic Sheriff Stilinski, Angst, Bad Parent Sheriff Stilinski, Character Study, FBI Intern Stiles Stilinski, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Introspection, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Short One Shot, but it's barely mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:08:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29977851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatsandMisery/pseuds/TrenchcoatsandMisery
Summary: To drink, or not to drink, that’s the real question here. Somewhere in this battle of will, a voice whispers for him to back away. He is not his father, doesn't need whatever solace lies at the bottom of a bottle. He holds back a manic smile, keeps his face blank; it bears wondering, however, why his conscience still sounds like Scott.Just an English assessment I repurposed for an angsty Stiles introspection. Basically, grown-up Stiles returns home to deal with his fathers affairs, several years after leaving Beacon Hills, the supernatural and his dad behind.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Bottled Memories

He could resist everything except temptation, and _this_ was very tempting. 

At first, he had hardly noticed it sitting on the counter, the bottle lost amongst cold sausage rolls and watery condolences. However, with the tissue clutching hoards of well-wishers long since gone, it refused to be ignored again. In the silence of the empty house, it called to him, honey-sweet and oil slick, a siren song both taunting and enticing.

Hands twitching by his sides, he could almost feel the phantom weight of the bottle in his palm, the cold curve of the glass on his skin. Desire simmered, bubbled, boiled over. A moment is all it would take to bring the bottle to his lips, to feel the smooth burn, lose himself in its warmth-

The phone rings.

The sound shatters the bottle’s hold on him. He forces his eyes from it, tears himself from the kitchen counter. The phone continues to ring, growing impossibly louder each second it goes unanswered. The struggle to find it has him digging through a small mountain of newspapers, rattling around in half a dozen drawers. Pain blooms as his head connects with a low hanging shelf, but finally, he emerges victorious with the phone in hand.

“Hello?”

It’s strange how things change. A week ago, staring out at a sprawling cityscape, breathing in the icy burn of the night’s air, he had been content. No more ghouls or fangs or claws. Just the academy, a future, a life more than bruises and lies. Now, in a house that isn’t his as he answers a dead man’s phone, the idea is laughable. As if he could ever escape this, the bottle and his duty. Beacon Hills has never felt so small, the air pressing tight and uncomfortable around him, a ghost on every street corner with his father now among them. Stuck right where he started, listening to the same hollow platitudes over and over again. The words are almost a script at this point, falling from his mouth effortlessly as he follows the steps of this tiresome dance.

“Yes, yes. That means a lot. Uh-huh, yeah, I am too.”

He nods absently, rubbing a hand over the lump on his head. The pain is grounding, as the voice on the other end of the phone continues entirely oblivious to his distraction. Their tone is soft and soothing, as if talking too loudly will remind him of what he has lost. They do that anyway though, the kindness of it is almost cruel, as ‘your father is’ and ‘your father was’ begin to blur into one long, monotone hum. It’s times like this he almost wishes he’d kept in contact with Melissa, if only to let someone else handle this burden. However, she, like the others, is long gone.

His gaze drifts, to the bottle, to the condensation glistening on its surface.

“That would mean a lot to him, I’m sure.”

A droplet, perfectly round and crystal clear, rolls achingly slowly down the dark glass. He tracks its progress, wets dry lips, tries to ignore the crackle of his throat as he speaks again.

“I’m sorry too.”

He’s not.

It’s a terrible thing to say, but it is the truth. Sorry faded the second he arrived at his childhood home to find every surface littered with bottles. It took an entire day to cart them all to the recycling, and by the time he had finished, a numbness had settled over him. Sorry would imply there is anything left to feel for the man missing from the room, who has been missing from his life for years already. Refusing to look him in the eye, even after the danger had passed, choosing instead to focus on the bottom of a tumbler. But even in death, his father remains a heavy presence. Stiles has been sorting through echoes of his father since he left the bright lights and towering buildings of his city dreams. The man is everywhere; the photos on the wall, the junk in the cabinet, the unwashed sheriff’s uniform crumpled on the stairs.

The whiskey, still sitting untouched on the counter, a warning and a memorial all at once.

“Thanks. Yeah. I’ll talk to you later, but really, I appreciate it.”

How the whiskey has remained unopened all this time is a mystery. He finds himself putting the phone down and reaching out towards it, fingers brushing the bottle’s neck. He wonders who put it on the counter, how long it’s been there. Did he do it, in a grief fuelled fugue, to test himself?

_The situation is a riddle in itself. He dismisses the thought. There have been no blackouts before, no chaos left in his wake. If the fox was back, nesting small and quiet in the dark of his mind, there are better ways to trick him than whiskey on the counter._

Maybe it was there before he even arrived, set out by his father in anticipation even though he’d never make it home.

To drink, or not to drink, that’s the real question here. Somewhere in this battle of will, a voice whispers for him to back away. He is not his father, doesn't need whatever solace lies at the bottom of a bottle. He holds back a manic smile, keeps his face blank; it bears wondering, however, why his conscience still sounds like Scott. 

Another voice, louder, cries for surrender. After all, they do say that the apple never falls far from the tree; ironic, considering how much his father hated cider. Personally, he thinks that children might just be doomed to inherit their father’s demons, generation after generation selling their souls for one more taste. Curious, how a decade of being aware of the supernatural left dear Sheriff John Stilinski dead of drink driving. 

There are worse ways to go, he supposes. Looking at the bottle, none come to mind, but still he finds himself reaching for it. There is nothing more tempting than liquid temptation and who is he to resist?

The cap unscrews easily, the clink of it on the counter cannon loud in his defeat. The glasses in the cupboard are dusty, a problem solved by the smooth sweep of his shirtsleeve. Amber splashes into crystal, one finger, then two. The bottle goes back in its place, watching him, and in a moment of madness, he pushes it away. It spins, slides to the very edge of the counter. 

There is a note on the back of the bottle. Written in careful cursive, familiar in tone, addressed to the dad his father used to be. 

_’Congrats, Johnny and clauds, for the baby boy. Try not to mess it up!’_

He laughs until he can’t. Tears running down his face, he silently puts the cap back on the bottle, turns it tight, tucks the whiskey into a cupboard. The glass he poured for himself drains slowly down the sink, and he doesn’t move until it’s all gone. He rests his head on the cold surface of the kitchen bench, next to the cold sausage rolls and his father’s memory and makes a choice.

Not today.


End file.
